“What is it? who do you want to see?” said a middle-aged gentleman, stepping forward from among several younger people by whom he was surrounded.
“The King,” answered Mabel, advancing. “Your Majesty—it is yourself!” she added, looking up and discovering that she was in the presence of George the Third, who, with several of his own family and three or four of his favourite courtiers and visitors, had just reached the end of the terrace.
“Ah! surely I have seen your face, young lady,” said the King, in his kind, gentle way. “Tell me all about it.”
“I had the honour of seeing your Majesty at Stanmore, the house of my uncle, Colonel Everard,” answered Mabel, “when your Majesty was last there.”
“Ah, yes, and I never forget a face,” said the King; “and how is your uncle?—he is an old friend of mine.”
“He has been called hence, your Majesty,” answered Mabel; “he is dead.”
“Ah! dear, dear,” said the King; “I had heard of it; my friends die quickly, and there are few to replace them; I ought to have remembered. But tell me what you require of me—what can I do for you?”
Mabel endeavoured to explain in a few words, and as clearly as possible, the object of her visit to the King. He listened attentively.
“A sad thing that mutiny, though; but are you certain that young man is not guilty? Can you prove it? There’s the question,” said the King. “People want proofs in these matters. We must not be governed by our feelings.”
“Oh, yes, your Majesty, I know, I am sure he is not guilty!” exclaimed Mabel, clasping her hands, and looking up imploringly at the King. “My liege, you have the power of saving him; oh! let me entreat you to do so. Exert your royal prerogative, and save the life of one who is innocent of the fearful charges brought against him.”